


Personal Apocrypha

by aesthete_laureate



Series: Personal Apocrypha [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: And then in spirit too about halfway through, Bill Cipher is His Own Warning, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Dubious consent that turns to consent, Ford is there in body, I believe, Insomnia, M/M, My brain thinks calling McGucket a "culchie" is true and correct, Oh not sure if this needs to be tagged but since it is Fiddleford he is Nervous, POV Second Person, Power Imbalance, Science shenanigans, TW: I don't know the difference between Southern slang and Irish slang, circa 1981, mention of infidelity, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthete_laureate/pseuds/aesthete_laureate
Summary: God, he sounded exactly the same. The serious, businesslike tone that gave way to barely-concealed excitement as soon as he realized you understood what he was talking about, his confidence that he was on the verge of making some great technological leap forward. You’re only human, so of course you had said yes, told him you’d come.Alternatively, "How much the camel can take until its back is broken - in which Fiddleford continues to give too much benefit of the doubt."
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Bill Cipher/Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: Personal Apocrypha [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118705
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Personal Apocrypha

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Hogmanay everyone

Sometimes you wonder if this was a mistake. 

The call had been unexpected, to say the least. You didn’t really keep in touch with anyone from college, preferring to leave the memories in that sleepy town in Ohio, where they belonged and where you were different. Destined for better. 

It had come during a lull in your work, when the circuit boards had been being contrary and uncooperative and you’d taken a few days to let them cool off, even tried taking up music again in the meantime. It hadn’t progressed much past you picking at the banjo strings in an approximation of a tune before the landline rang, and you answered. 

God, he sounded exactly the same. The serious, businesslike tone that gave way to barely-concealed excitement as soon as he realized you understood what he was talking about, his confidence that he was on the verge of making some great technological leap forward but that to do so he needed your help. You’re only human, so of course you had said yes, told him you’d come.

The bus ride from California up to Oregon was long and boring, and you felt out of place among all the fishermen’s wives and seasonal loggers. 

He’d put his research grant money to good use, you’d mused, as the claustrophobic forest path (where you’d felt eyes on you, and you weren’t a stranger to wildlife nor nature’s dominion but by golly did it feel like something too intelligent was watching) gave way to a clearing and the more-than-modestly-sized A-frame cabin.

It was a good ten minutes after you rang the bell that he finally answered the door. Long enough that you very nearly picked up your bag and turned right back around, but he caught you just as you turned to look back over your shoulder, hands worrying at the satchel strap that lay across your chest. He’d said your name so warmly and looked at you with a beaming smile to match, and immediately you felt bad for even contemplating bailing on him. 

He had pulled you into an immediate, crushing hug, and you had forgotten how much bigger he was than you. He was stronger now, too, but how did that happen? There was no way he had built this place up alone. (Even if that’s just the type of thing he’d do, gotta do it himself if he’d be able to consider it done right. His is the only work he ever had faith in, and he asked for your help, sought you out. The notion shouldn’t flutter in your chest the way it does.) You’d have patted his back if you could have moved your arms, but they were trapped between your chest and his.

He’d caught sight of your hands when he’d finally pulled away and said “No way. Well, hell. Never thought I’d see a ring on your finger,” and lord help you it had made you blush. 

You’d mumbled your way through a greeting as he’d ushered you inside, and you noticed the, uh, architectural pattern right away. 

Even more eyes on you than there had felt like in the forest. 

But, the kitchen was cozy and the mug he pressed into your hands was warm and his contagious enthusiasm more than made up for the tea being weaker than how you usually took it. 

(Your wedding band had found its way tucked into the zip-up pocket on the inside of your duffel bag by the next morning.)

The underground lab was unexpected. He must have gotten a lot more money than he had let on over the phone. But you got to work right away, woke up with the sun on your first day there in the lonely upstairs guest room and headed straight from the little adjacent bathroom to the elevator where he was waiting, and then down thirty feet under. He stood close enough to your side that you could feel the heat from his body, but you’d just kept your hands in the pockets of your corduroys and tried to look mildly impressed instead of shocked at the extent of his setup. 

You’d tried to keep up with his explanation. He always talks so quickly and so assuredly, you were reminded of when he would raise his hand in lecture hall, your poor professors hardly ever equipped to deal with his extrapolations on their simple lesson plans. The schematic seems straightforward enough, except for the odd symbols littering the blackboard he shows you - you didn’t recognize them from any formula you’d ever seen, or even any alphabet at all.

Progress went smoothly, it always did between the two of you. 

It wasn’t for a couple of weeks that you noticed he didn’t sleep. You had just kind of assumed that he did it whenever you did, or else he just took cat naps here and there to compliment his erratic but constant work schedule. 

It was a Thursday morning, only just recently Wednesday night, and you hadn’t for the life of you been able to sleep. The upstairs room was too cold, blankets too thin. The window was triangular and when the moonlight hit it the circle in the center of the pane was illuminated like a watchful eye and it made your skin crawl, prickle with gooseflesh, so you threw a sweater on over your sleep shirt and headed down to the lab. 

If you’d known he would be there, you would have gotten properly dressed. You say as much, when he turns to look at you, and there’s an odd look in his eye that you attribute to the hour, and maybe too much coffee. You offer him a small smile, shy that you’re only halfway decent, and reach up to rub the back of your neck sheepishly.

“Sleepless night for you too, I reckon?”

He grins. Gets up from his seat at the console and makes his way toward you with a gait that you’d call drunken if you ever knew him for someone to imbibe.

“Jus’ thought I’d head on down to see if there’s much needs doin’, seems you thought of that already though.” You try, but all you get from him by way of response is another long stare, smile fixed on his face like he’s about to clue you in on a joke.

Your hands try to find your pockets out of habit, but your pajama pants don’t have any. They curl into fists at your sides instead, wringing in inexplicable nervousness as you speak up for a third time. You can’t quite look at him anymore - the way he’s watching you. It feels like it did back on the forest path, or upstairs in your room. “I was thinkin, uh, maybe I’d go up to the kitchen and put the kettle on, my stomach thinks my throat’s cut here--”

“I’m not hungry.” He interjects, and his voice is just a touch too loud, there’s just a little too much force behind it. “And neither are you.”

You flinch.

His grin grows wider. You manage a quiet “alright,” before he’s stood right in front of you, and when his hands come up to clasp your shoulders you look back up at his face in shock. He’s never this forward, had never grabbed at you before. His hands are warm and heavy and his dark eyes are sharp, focused, too focused to match his stilted (powerful) movements.

(What? No. Ford’s eyes are blue. Not dark, wouldn’t be inky black in the fluorescent lighting. You’re seeing things.)

“You’re jumpy.” He comments, his voice sounding as offhand as is possible while still being just this side of too forceful.

“I-”

“It’s cute. You’re cute, for the geeky kind. You know that?”

He spits ‘cute’ out like a dirty word. Your mouth falls open slightly, and your brow furrows as you make yourself meet his eyes again. He’s looking straight through you, you can feel the heat of his gaze sure through the back of your head.

“Stanford-”

“Yes.” There’s an unspoken, gleeful ‘that’s me’ that confuses you further, does he always act like this when it gets to be this late? Is he under the influence of sterner stuff than alcohol? He wasn’t the type for that, not back in school anyway. You feel like you’d have noticed such a stark change in demeanor by now, if it were just part of him.

He watches you. Drinks you in calmly as your tongue darts out to wet your lips, which are suddenly desperately dry, and then he watches as your cheeks flush red when you see his gaze flick down at the tiny movement. He’s looking at you the way you never, ever wanted him to (but always wanted him to, so, so badly). He has to stop, or you’re going to embarrass yourself here.

“Wh-what do you want?” Your voice is small compared to his. Your shoulders are small compared to his hands. He’s a good amount taller than you are, to boot.

(The feeling that the realization inspires in you is not dread, though it really ought to be.)

“Let’s not worry about that, techie.” And that’s odd, really, because he usually refers to you by your name. You don’t have much time to ruminate on it though, because he continues with a question that sets your nerves altogether alight. “What is it that you want?”

He’s laughing at you with his eyes, he’s accusing you of something, and God help you it only serves to start getting you worked up. 

He can’t know, the thoughts you have about him in the dark on your own are safe in your own head, but he’s looking at you like-- like he can read your thoughts. (And grinning, as if he likes them.)

Your mouth is dry again, and your palms are cold where your hands are still clenched to your sides. You’re sweating like a sinner in church. Like a whore at confession. “I don’t-, I-, what are you-- you’ve got me up the wrong tree, here, I’m ma-” you can’t speak. He’s got his hands on you and he shouldn’t be touching you but the words won’t come out, because you don’t actually want to tell him no.

One of his hands moves, downward, passes over your abdomen until he’s got it tucked right up between your legs, and you’re so startled you actually shout. There’s not much for him to be able to feel, not yet, but it’s definitely not nothing, either.

“Your mouth is saying all the things you’re supposed to say, but your body says I’m right.” He tilts his head, drums his fingertips against the fabric of your pajama bottoms, and that makes you gasp. “Which one should I listen to?”

Then he presses his palm to you and grinds it down, and your body is very much interested in what he’s doing but you still can’t get your mouth to catch up with your mind. You want to answer him, say: yes, keep going, touch me there, which conflicts with what it is that you really ought to be saying: stop, no, let me go. You’re shivering, and it’s definitely not from the cold, there’s no inlet for a draft down here. 

You’ve never been shaking from arousal before, but the warm slide of illicit pleasure down your spine makes it clear that you won’t be able to conflate this with the cold spike that usually comes with fear, which. Doesn’t make sense. You should be afraid. He’s bigger than you and he’s got his hands on you, is slipping one under the elastic waistband of your pants and cupping you and squeezing, but all that comes out of your mouth is a soft, high little moan. It’s effeminate, and embarrassing, and if your face heats much more you’ll probably pass out from the disparity between the two places where all your blood has gone.

He likes that, though, if the slight shift in expression is anything to go by. His fingers curl around the shaft of your arousal and his hand feels so different to your own or your- (no, don’t think about that. You don’t want to have her, just.. just for now) - different to your own, and the extra digit doesn’t really make that much of a difference but his hand is callused and sure in the way it strokes upward and, right at the end, gives a little twist.

Oh. That draws another sharp inhale from you, the sound of it choked off. Your body is suddenly tense in a different way than from fear, hips canted back against the elevator door as if you couldn’t decide if you wanted to get away from the touch or simply needed the support behind you. The hand on your shoulder moves so that it’s pinning you to the wall more than just holding you in place, and it’s probably good that he’s keeping you upright because when he strokes again you shudder and your legs try to give out under you. He just keeps going, setting a steady pace (just slightly too fast) and sticking with it. Your body is having a much easier time enjoying it than your brain, and you’re not going to last at all.

You’re breathing heavily and staring at the ground behind him and then he’s talking, again, his voice low and dangerous as he leans in to speak into your ear. “It seems like this is the way you wanted me to go after all. It’s kind of sweet how you try to deny yourself for fun. Look at you. You’re gagging for it.” He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, is the defense that instantly comes into your head, but his words and the tone of them only stoke the furnace in your lower belly, and you make another soft whimpering sound. Damn him, you can’t respond any other way - it feels good. 

The back of your head hits the elevator door with a metallic thud when you turn your gaze up to the ceiling, baring your throat to him in an instinctual gesture that means you’re right, you win.

You bite at your bottom lip to try and avoid making any more incriminating little noises, and it works decently well. Count yourself lucky, too, because he’s leaned more of his weight against you and it’s stopped you from crumbling to the floor thus far. His hand moving steadily over you feels electric, your body a live wire. He’s murmuring something else to you, but you’re doing your darndest to tune it out. You couldn’t bear to hear what words he’s saying, the sardonic tone already doing enough for the confused lust-shame-want clouding your head. When he pauses at the base and squeezes, your hips jerk forward and the sound you make you nearly don’t recognize as your own.

He nuzzles in the space under your jaw and exhales a low laugh against the side of your neck, making your skin tingle and your eyes squeeze shut, your head turned sharply to the side. A spike of lust shoots down your spine at the almost-contact, pooling hotly in your belly, and you’re gasping, wetly, hips stuttering forward in helpless little pulses, and you’re going to-- and he-- He stops. Draws away from you, just slightly, and you couldn’t take it if he left you like this.

You exhale sharply, brows knit together as you turn your head back and look up at him beseechingly. Your hands move from where they may just as well have been pinned to the wall by your sides to rest on his shoulders - tentative, faltering, unsure how he’ll respond to you actually touching him back. He lets you. His fingers flex idly around you where his hand is still shoved down the front of your pants and even that tiny movement steals your breath away again, accompanied by a tiny, pleading “mm”.

A pause.

“..don’t play with me now, Stanford, don’t be cruel. Please.” You whisper, and he looks down at your lips and then back up to meet your eyes. He’s so close to kissing you. 

There’s worry in his expression that wasn’t there a moment ago, but you can’t bring yourself to do anything about that except notice it. You tug gently at his shoulders, pleading. He’s hesitating, why is he hesitating? He wants this, too, you can feel the proof of that hot and hard where he’s pressed up against your thigh.

His lips finally touch yours and it’s providential destruction, it feels like Judas in Gethsemane, only you wouldn’t be able to say which of you was betraying the other if you tried six ways til Sunday. They’re chapped and he’s hesitant now but it’s warm all the same and your eyes flutter shut, body arching forward to press against him. It feels like an electric current dancing down your back. Your hands curl around his shoulder, the back of his neck, and you pull him in closer.

Your hips are rocking of their own accord, dragging his hand over your skin yourself because he’s stopped stroking you but you’re almost there and you can’t help the little “please, please,” that you whine into his mouth.

The hand on your shoulder slowly, ever so slowly, moves down and he tucks that arm about your waist instead. You feel oddly delicate in his arms, he’s holding you like you’re some precious breakable thing, and something in the murky depths of your mind likes that. It’s tender, intimate, and it very nearly sends you over the edge in and of itself. Which is silly, he’s got his other hand on a much more erogenous area of your body right now for the love of all that’s holy, but he just hugs you tightly to his body and his lips disconnect from yours with a soft, wet sound. There’s the barest whisper of a groan when he breathes out - it’s soft, it sounds right, it sounds like him - and then, he murmurs your name and you’re gone.

Your head whips to the side again, your nose wrinkles and your fingers curl into fists in the fabric of his shirt. His hand is still only pressed up against where you need it, he’s not moving it, but that’s enough - you grind forward against his palm as your release spills from you, accompanied by a sharp gasp and a couple of flustered little “ah, ah, ah”s. You’re pretty sure your eyes are closed, or else you’ve blacked out a little.

When you manage to come around he’s staring at you, pressing his hips forward against your thigh and rocking in tiny motions that he might not even be aware of. His blue eyes are soft, now, concerned in a way that doesn’t make a lick of sense. How did we get here, it looks like he’s asking you, and you don’t have any way to respond to that.

So, instead, you nibble on your bitten-sore bottom lip and make an abortive little attempt at lifting your leg up between his own. It’s only right you return the favor, after all. He’s searching your gaze, looking at you intently like it’s the first time he’d seen you that night, and then he twitches in a full-body shudder. His mouth opens slightly for him to let out a low, mournful-sounding keen, and it’s not until he leans down against you, pinning you solidly to the elevator door, that you realize he had just come.

It’s a good few minutes of silence, each of you breathing steadily, until he extracts his hand from your pajama bottoms and steps back from you completely. His arms cross over his chest, and he looks you furtively up and down. You manage to stand with minimal support from the wall.

“I, ah, are you. Are you alright?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. The corner of your mouth twitches up, in a tiny, incredulous little smile. “I’m alright.”

He seems to accept that, nodding, even though he’s pointedly avoiding looking at your face. He’s blushing, you note with a start, and you huff out a soft laugh - it’s a funny time for that. You decide to take a stab at ignoring the sticky mess in your pants for now in favor of smoothing down your sweater. 

He clears his throat, glances up to meet your eye again. “Good.”

“Yeah. Good.”

He lets you sleep in his bed that night, on the ground floor next to the fireplace where it’s warmer. He’ll take the couch, he says, he actually, legitimately prefers it. 

You try to insist that he at least share the mattress with you, but he won’t hear it. Says he’s restless at night, he’ll just keep you up. So you nod, tuck his comforter up around your shoulders, listen to his slow breathing and the crackle of the wood in the hearth.

You sleep better than you ever had since the last time it was in the same room as him.

**Author's Note:**

> *narrator voice* Things were not, in fact, good.


End file.
